


Never Have I Ever

by dierdele



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: I'm a sucker for a drinking game, M/M, it's sickly sweet, they're drunken idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 12:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18549682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dierdele/pseuds/dierdele
Summary: “Never have I ever fancied a teammate,” Dele says quietly. He chews the inside of his mouth and looks down into Eric’s eyes.Or, Dele and Eric sit in a beach bar one afternoon in Portugal and play Never Have I Ever.





	Never Have I Ever

Eric isn’t normally a giggly drunk. On the contrary, he’s usually that guy who’s falling asleep in the corner somewhere, a beer bottle steadily slipping out of his hand as he dozes off against a wall in some obnoxious, over-priced club. He’s usually the guy that gets bundled into the back of a taxi at 1am because he can’t stay awake and he’s desperately in need of food. He’s usually in bed by 2am, snoring and completely lost to the world.

But tonight he’s wide awake, holding some fancy cocktail that contains not one, not two, but _three_ glacier cherries, and he’s actually _giggling._

He’s in Portugal with Dele - because last week Dele made some casual remark about wanting to go and Eric was feeling impulsive - it’s late afternoon, somewhere around 20 degrees. The air is warm and sweet with the smell of alcohol and sun cream and Dele’s expensive aftershave. The rustic shack-turned-bar they’re sitting at is on the beach, so they’ve got white sand beneath their feet and this gorgeous view of the waves rolling in beneath the blazing afternoon sun. It’s picture perfect, really.

They’re sitting at a table tucked away to the side, cocktail glasses spilled all over it. Dele’s ordered four, maybe five now, and he’s telling the story about how he once made Harry Hickford eat sand as a child. Apparently they were in a sandpit together and they were about nine and Dele told Harry that if Harry didn’t do it, Dele wouldn’t be his friend anymore. Dele can’t help but splutter with laughter as he tells the story, his eyes wide and happy because he’s definitely on the dangerous side of tipsy. His sentences are pierced with giggles and he shakes his head disbelievingly at how horrible he was to his brother.

Eric has actually heard this story three times already, but Dele always laughs so much when telling it that Eric doesn’t really mind the reruns. The alcohol trailing around his body is making him feel lethargic, so it’s nice to just zone out a little and watch Dele tell his story with enthusiastic hand gestures and big, toothy smiles. He’s talking about Harry eating the sand now, or something to do with eating, because he’s mimicking scooping something up to his mouth, but all Eric can focus on is how his teeth gleam in the sunshine. _You have nice teeth,_ Eric thinks idly. He remembers Dele’s smile before he got the veneers and feels a weird, emotional pang in his chest. He actually misses those teeth and that dorky smile. But the new teeth are nice, too. Dele has always had a nice smile.

“So he runs to Sally and he’s crying and spitting this sand everywhere, and he goes ‘Dewe made me eat sand’ and I don’t even _try_ to look innocent,” Dele says, slurring his words and grinning again. The sun pours across his face in a way that turns his eyes golden. Eric has never noticed that before, how Dele’s eyes go light in the sun. They’re normally so impossibly dark and mysterious, like they’re hiding something Eric will never quite understand, a barrier between Eric and the millions of thoughts that cascade through Dele’s head. But right now, the barrier has been lifted. Dele is off-guard, comfortable. He’s telling reruns of his favourite stories. He’s sipping lazily from his cocktail straw. He’s knocking his knee against Eric’s under the table and saying, “You listening to me, mate?”

Eric swallows thickly and lifts his gaze from Dele’s mouth. He’s wearing Eric’s white billowy shirt because he spilt orange juice down his own and couldn’t be bothered to iron something new.

Eric sips his overly-sweet cocktail and grins back at him. “Yeah. Always.”

It’s not that he’s not listening, it’s just that, well, he’s heard the story before and the alcohol is making him lose focus. Dele keeps almost falling off his stool and Eric has to grab his arm every time to steady him, so he’s mostly just watching out for when Dele sways too much.

Not to mention it’s starting to get a little rowdy in here. Everyone has come in from the sea now, smelling of salt and peppered with sand. Drinks are being ordered faster than they can be poured. The music has been turned up another two notches. David Guetta, or maybe Avicii. Eric doesn't know. But he’d be willing to bet that Dele does.

“Well that’s why Harry always says I bully him, but I don’t, do I? I don’t think I do. Maybe when we were kids but he _was_ annoying.”

Eric wants to ask him if he knows the song, because it’s catchy and he’s definitely heard it on the radio before, but the only thought his unhelpful brain supplies him with is _Dele looks good in my shirt._ But it’s probably because it’s Eric’s shirt and Eric quite likes that shirt. It’s a bit big for Dele, but he’s rolled up the sleeves and the neckline is hanging just shy of his collarbones. Eric looks at them and suddenly wants to lick them for no reason other than he’s possibly very drunk.

“You know when we were kids he pushed me off the top of a slide?” Dele says, raising his eyebrows. Eric _does_ know. Harry pushed him off a slide and Dele landed awkwardly and broke his wrist. Had it in a cast for two weeks.

“I broke my wrist. Had it in a cast for two weeks. Only major injury as a kid, though.” Dele twists his wrist in front of his face and frowns at it. “Never been the same since.”

“Don’t really need your wrists to play football,” Eric says, smiling at him and shrugging.

“No, but it’s impaired my ability to wank properly,” Dele says quickly, darting his eyes to the waitress and signalling for more shots to be brought over. _He’s probably joking_ , Eric tells himself, but he still lingers on the thought, wonders if it’s actually true.

The waitress brings over another round of shots and sets them down. She’s brunette, with dark eyes like Dele’s. She’s pretty. Eric notices the way she leans over Dele, brushing his arm with hers and then immediately batting her eyelashes at him. Dele smiles politely at her until she leaves, and then turns to Eric with a wolfish grin.

“You ever played _never have I ever?_ ” He asks.

Eric _knows_ that grin. He’s seen it enough times to know Dele has already decided that, regardless of whether Eric has ever played it before, they are 100% about to play it right now.

“I’ve played it,” Eric says simply. He twists the stem of his cocktail glass in his fingertips and fixes Dele with a curious look.

“So you have to drink every time I say something that you’ve done. If you haven’t done it, you don’t drink. You can’t ask questions about what gets revealed but you have to be completely honest. Don’t just say stuff you know I’ve-”

“I know the rules,” Eric interrupts. Dele frowns at him and Eric apologises by knocking their knees together again under the table. He curls his mouth into a happy, drunken smile and Dele slides a shot across the table to him.

“I’ll start,” he says around the straw he’s got perched between his lips. “Never have I ever had sex on the beach.”

“Straight in with the sex questions, huh, Del?”

Dele smiles devilishly around his straw and shrugs. “No point beating around the bush.”

“You’ve never had sex on the beach?” Eric asks with a raised eyebrow. He’s definitely more than a little surprised by that.

“No, the sand would be well annoying.”

“You’ve got a problem with sand,” Eric mutters, but he sips from his drink in what he hopes is a subtle manner.

“When did you have sex on the beach and with who?” Dele demands, almost outraged. Eric laughs at him and shakes his head playfully.

“No, no, you’re not allowed to ask questions. It’s in the rules!”

“You asked me a question!” Dele argues. He hits his knee against Eric’s again and this time he leaves it there. “Anyways, Diet, _Eric Diet,_ you were supposed to do the shot.”

“This is mine?” Eric asks, looking down at the offensive-looking liquid in the shot glass. He doesn’t even know what it is.

“Just put it in your mouth,” Dele whines. He picks the shot glass up and clumsily brings it to Eric’s lips, but Eric leans away from it and some of the alcohol spills out onto the table. Dele sets it down and pouts. “Do the shot, Eric!”  

“Never have I ever done a body shot,” Eric says, still frowning at the mess Dele has made in front of him.

“What’s that?” Dele asks.

“Where you take a shot off someone’s body. Like pick the glass up with your mouth.”

“Oh, no, but I want to,” Dele says. He sips from his drink anyway because clearly he’s forgotten the rules of the game. Eric thinks about reminding him, but then shrugs it off. Dele looks happy enough. He’s got the sun on his face and the sea breeze in his hair and- _no._ Eric stops himself before that train of thought can go any further. He’s too drunk for this.

“Never have I ever thought about leaving Spurs,” Dele says seriously.  

Eric sips tentatively, his eyes trained on Dele’s reaction. He knows it’s coming, and yet his heart still sinks a little when he sees Dele’s expression, raw and hurt.  

“Why!?” He demands.

Eric shakes his head at him. “Can’t ask.”

Dele looks like he wants to argue but he closes his mouth and stares out into the distance, his brow furrowed in frustration.

“It was a long time ago, Delboy,” Eric adds. “I’m not going anywhere.” Before he can register his own actions, he’s reaching across to tickle the back of Dele’s neck affectionately.

Dele hums and leans into the touch, a smile breaking out across his face again. Eric feels his the tension washing away between them.  

“Hmm, fine,” Dele says, but his tone is light and playful. “Next question.”

“It’s your turn,” Eric points out. He slides the shot back across to Dele and Dele seems to have already forgotten that this was originally meant for Eric. And also that it’s Eric’s go.

“Never have I ever tried to suck my own dick,” Dele smirks.

Eric narrows his eyes at him. “You have _definitely_ tried to suck your own dick,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Did I already tell you that?” Dele asks, clearly stunned at his own inability to keep his own secrets. Eric sighs and nods. _You’re terrible at this game,_ he thinks.

Dele picks up the shot and downs it in one. He almost looks like he’s going to hold it together, but then his expression crumbles and he screws up his face, making a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. Eric laughs out loud and pats him sympathetically on the shoulder. Dele immediately brings his hand to Eric’s and holds it. Maybe for support, or maybe because he’s drunk. Either way, it only takes him a few seconds to realise and then he blushes and drops his hand back to his lap.

“Well, I have never tried to suck my own dick, so you really just played yourself there,” Eric says, breaking the silence. He sips from his cocktail and blinks at the sheer amount of vodka that has settled at the bottom. He doesn’t even need the shot. He’s already well on his way to being wasted.

“Never have I ever played with myself in training,” Dele says suddenly, a little _too_ loud. Eric makes a face at him and checks over his shoulder. Thankfully everyone else at the beach bar is too lost in their own conversations, hazy with martinis and, well, whatever the hell this is playing out of the speakers.  

“It’s not even your turn!” Eric laughs as he turns back to Dele. “But no, I haven’t.” He clinks his glass against Dele’s because he just _knows_ Dele is about to drink.

“Really?” Dele asks, genuinely surprised. “Fuck. I have loads of times.”

“During _training?”_ Eric asks. He knows the rules, knows he’s not supposed to ask questions, but he can’t bring himself to care and Dele has long forgotten the rules anyway.

“Yeah, no, not like _during_ training, Diet, not when we’re out playing rondo or anything. God, what do you think I am? No, no. I mean like, _in_ training, at Hotspur Way. In the showers and that.”

“What’s _and that?_ ”

“Well, like…” Dele hesitates and flits his gaze away from Eric. He can’t meet Eric’s eyes anymore, so he looks out over the sea instead. Eric nudges him under the table, staring intently and waiting for his answer. Dele shrugs and blushes, finally looking back at Eric in defeat. “Like… in the dressing room,” he mumbles.  

“Were you on your own?” Eric presses. Surely, _surely_ Dele didn’t actually wank while someone else was in there.

“No,” Dele answers with another innocuous shrug. If they were sober right now, Eric probably wouldn’t believe him, but he knows Dele can’t lie when he’s drunk. The truth always comes spilling out of him.

“Who was there?”

“You were there,” Dele says. He bites his bottom lip and smiles coyly. He shrugs one more time, just to prove he really _doesn’t care,_ and Eric doesn’t know whether to believe him. About any of it. Wanking in the dressing room is one thing, but while Eric was _there?_

Eric racks his brain, desperate for some kind of memory, an occasion where it could have happened, when Dele maybe looked suspicious, or pulled his shorts up too quickly, or hurried out with a blush creeping up his neck.

“When?” Eric asks. He nods at the waitress for another round of shots. “Hey,” Eric says when Dele doesn’t answer him quick enough. He touches Dele’s arm. “When?”

“No questions!” Dele grins. He stabs his finger against Eric’s chest and narrows his eyes at him. “Stop asking questions, _Eric Dier.”_

“Why do you keep saying my name like that?” Eric asks instead, even though what he really wants to know is when Dele wanked in the dressing room in front of him. “Just tell me which season.”

“This season,” Dele says hurriedly. “And your name like what? It’s just your name. Eric Jeremy Edgar Dier.”

“This season?”

“Stop it!” Dele laughs and shakes his head. He raises his eyebrows disapprovingly. “If you can’t follow the rules, Eric Dier, then you can’t play the game-”

“Never have I ever had a wank in the dressing room in the last three weeks.”

Dele tongues the inside of his cheek and continues shaking his head. _I’ve got you now,_ Eric thinks, holding back his smile. He looks at Dele seriously and drops his gaze to the half-empty strawberry daiquiri that Dele has been turning nervously in his hands for the past five minutes. “Well?”

“That’s not fair. No follow up questions,” Dele whines. He’s about to say something else but he’s interrupted by the waitress. It’s the same one from before, or maybe it’s a different one - Eric isn’t sure. This one is blonde and tanned, with piercing blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Dele leans back to let her into his space. A lazy, sun-soaked smile spreads across his face as he tilts his head and licks his lips.

Eric kicks him under the table, a little harder than he intended, and Dele snaps his gaze to him, his eyes wide and affronted.

“What was _that_ for?” Dele asks. The waitress places their next round of shots down and slips away before Dele even notices. He’s looking at Eric furiously, making a show of rubbing his shin under the table.  

“It’s your turn!” Eric answers, brushing off Dele’s outraged glare. “Next question, come on.”

“So _impatient,_ ” Dele slurs. He slides one of the tequila shots across the table to Eric. “Oh, good, they remembered the lime and salt this time.”

“I hate tequila,” Eric sighs, looking at the little plate of lime wedges with disgust. Before he can think about it, he adds, “Reminds me of Toby’s birthday night out.”

And then he stops, and inhales sharply, and reminds himself that _they don’t talk about that night._

Dele looks at him and chuckles inwardly. He pauses, his mouth seemingly ready to spill out the next confession, but he hesitates. Eric bites on the corner of his lower lip. “Never have I ever kissed my best friend while wasted on tequila,” Dele says, and the cheeky, sun-soaked smirk has been replaced with a small, nervous smile.

He pushes the plate of limes across the table to Eric.

Eric hums in the back of this throat and picks up the salt shaker. He licks a stripe across the back of his hand before trickling salt onto it and sighing.

Dele licks the back of his own hand painfully slow. Eric watches him, annoyed by the gesture, annoyed that Dele looks at him the whole time, annoyed that Eric can’t pull his eyes away. _Just drunk_ , he thinks.

“On three?” Dele says casually, sprinkling salt onto his hand. He sets a wedge of lime down in front of him and picks up the shot glass.

Eric nods, for lack of any actual choice in the matter.

“One, two, three.”

Eric licks the salt from his hand and necks the shot. It’s not quite as painful or as disgusting as he was remembering, and the moment he puts the lime in his mouth he realises it really isn’t that bad at all. Maybe he was overreacting the whole time. Or maybe he was just scared to do tequila ever again. Especially after what happened last time.

But he doesn’t think about that. He thinks about this moment, right now, in Portugal with Dele. He’s got this beautiful scenery, the afternoon sun beating down on him, and he’s got Dele sitting in front of him grinning like an idiot. His cheeks rosy and his eyes squinty in the sun. The smiles stretches across his face for miles. _You really do have nice teeth_.

“Never have I ever wanted to do it again,” Eric blurts out, just because Dele’s idiot grin is actually incredibly endearing, and the alcohol is making him say crazy things, and they’re in Portugal, so maybe it doesn’t matter.

Dele blinks and him and steadies himself against the table. “Want to go in the sea,” he says suddenly. Eric watches him slide from his stool and find his footing.

“You didn’t answer my... “ Eric trails off. Dele has stuffed his phone in his pocket and is ambling out onto the sand, looking back at Eric over his shoulder with that same inviting grin. Eric tilts his head to one side, curious, but Dele just beckons him again.

Eric’s an idiot if he thinks he isn’t going to follow him.

_Just drunk._

The sand softens beneath each step. He’s running after Dele down the beach, the whole world spinning around him. The giggles come rising out of him as he closes the distance, grabs at the back of Dele’s billowy shirt. They both tumble to the ground together, Dele screeching with laughter and Eric trying to avoid getting sand in his eyes and mouth.

“Diet” Dele exclaims. He rolls himself on top of Eric, straddling his hips. Eric looks up at him but the sun is blinding in his eyes. “You’ve got sand in my hair!”

“You’ll live,” Eric shrugs. He places his hands on the outside of Dele’s thighs and holds him steady. He doesn’t know why, but he rubs his thumb along the skin and takes a deep, shaky breath. The sun is still blinding - he can’t actually see Dele’s expression apart from in the seconds when Dele moves his head to block the sun from Eric’s face.

“Hmm,” Dele says. He moves his head in front of sun and Eric can see that he’s smiling despite trying to sound annoyed. “Wanna go in the sea. Coming?”

Eric nods. _I’ll go wherever you go._

Dele looks sideways out to the sea, but he doesn’t move. He places his hand on top of Eric’s and continues watching the waves breaking against the shore.

Eric looks around. They’re the only ones out near the water. Everyone else is dancing and drinking at the beach bar, arms slung around sun-kissed necks. The music is further away now, but the tropical mix of Portuguese and English drifts down the sand, carried on the wind.

“I have,” Dele says, pulling Eric’s attention back. Eric turns his head, using his free hand to block out the glare of the sun. His other is still sitting on Dele’s thigh, and Dele’s hand is on top of it, curling around his fingers.

“You have what?” Eric asks. He closes one eye and squints against the sun. Dele tilts his head in just the right direction and Eric lowers his hand. He can see Dele’s nervous smile again.

“Your question. Have I wanted to do it again. I have, yeah.”

Eric swallows thickly. He’s lying down flat against the sand but the world is still spinning. Dele is on top of him. His fingers are stroking Eric’s. _And he’s thought about kissing me again._

“I have-” Eric pauses because Dele has moved his head again, and now the sun is in his eyes. His brain tells him to move Dele, move him back in front of the sun. So he takes his hand and balls it up in the front of Dele’s shirt - _his_ shirt. White and billowy and looking far better on Dele than it ever has on him. _Just drunk,_ he thinks, when his heart starts hammering in his chest for no reason at all.

“C’mere,” Eric mumbles. He goes to move Dele to the left but ends up pulling him down instead. Dele’s smile stretches for miles and miles. _You really do have nice teeth._ Dele’s closer. Too close. He’s blocking the sun because he’s _right there_ ,and so is Eric. The distance between them is painful. Eric’s breath catches in his throat.

“You have?” Dele’s hand reaches up to comb through Eric’s hair. It feels nice. Too nice.

Eric mumbles something inaudible. He can’t process Dele’s question. _Have what? Have thought about kissing you again? Every day._

“You have…” Eric begins, repeating Dele’s words back to him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn't know why Dele is inches from his face, or why he’s annoyed that there are still any inches between them at all. “You have nice teeth,” he finishes. It’s a stupid comment, but it’s all his brain will give him.

Dele hesitates, a little taken aback, then he flashes his smile again. Eric makes a noise in the back of his throat. _Could be people watching,_ he thinks. _Sand in hair._ Dele brushes the end of his nose against Eric’s. _You have a problem with sand. Made Harry eat it._ Dele’s breath is warm and sweet on Eric’s lips. _Could be people watching._

Eric thinks about turning his head to check, but then Dele giggles, small and shy, and Eric thinks _nope, don’t care._ The thought comes lazily and easily, the same way his fingers thread through Dele’s hair. _You smell like sun cream._ Eric can’t tell anymore what is Dele and what is the sun behind him. Sometime’s he’s a silhouette, and sometimes he’s the light burning brightly.

And then he’s everything, and everywhere. Eric closes his eyes the second he feels Dele’s lips on his, cautious and hesitant and still tasting faintly of strawberry daiquiri. Dele kisses him softly and Eric can’t help but smile into it. _Never thought we’d be doing this again._ He curls his fingers around the back of Dele’s neck and pulls him down, kisses him deeper. It’s familiar and new all at once. The sand is new, the game leading up to it is new, and Dele wearing Eric’s clothes is new. But the way Dele kisses? Like this is the only thing in the world he truly cares about? Eric has never forgotten that.

Dele murmurs into the kiss and pulls away slightly, creating a gap between them that feels too big even though it’s barely two inches. Eric looks up into dark, hazel eyes and feels a knot forming in his stomach.

“Eric Dier,” Dele whispers. It rolls off his tongue easily. His favourite words. Eric doesn’t know how to respond, so he leans up and plants a gentle kiss on Dele’s mouth. _Come back to me_.

And he does. He comes back again, and again, and eventually he rolls off of Eric and settles at his side, with his back to the beach bar and his eyes on the stretch of sea in front of them. He leans down to kiss the side of Eric’s face, his cheekbones, his forehead, the tip of his nose. He smiles nervously whenever Eric meets his gaze, but Eric threads his fingers back into Dele’s hair and scratches his head with his fingertips.

“Never have I ever fancied a teammate,” Dele says quietly. He chews the inside of his mouth and looks down into Eric’s eyes.

Eric laughs a little. “You got me,” he answers, and he meets Dele’s mouth somewhere in the middle.


End file.
